


Over and Done

by the_three_garridebs



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, post-series 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-05-14 10:50:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14768186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_three_garridebs/pseuds/the_three_garridebs
Summary: John and Sherlock escape to the Sussex Downs to figure things out after the events of series 4. The weight of past events threatens to drag them down--John's drinking, Sherlock's brushes with death--but perhaps there is light at the end of the tunnel...





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no option for a flashbacks or panic attacks warning, so full disclosure: those are included. 
> 
> After recently rewatching series 4, I came to the conclusion that absolutely nothing is dealt with responsibly. I feel like these characters go through endless cycles of pain without experiencing any kind of consequence or reckoning so...here's that. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Please let me know what you think. 
> 
> -H
> 
> [UPDATE 7/8/18: This chapter has been rewritten and edited.]

What Sherlock recalled most clearly was the feeling of dying. 

His breath fleeing, his organs shutting down, his skin growing clammy. And the last person he would see was not John, or Mary, or anyone he loved, but leering Culverton Smith.

Sherlock never spoke of the experience after everything had been resolved, and for good reason. The tapes. 

One day, long after Sherlock had been released from hospital, and reconstruction had begun in 221B, John made a trip to Scotland Yard. It went totally unannounced, but Sherlock knew. He could imagine exactly what happened. Lestrade, pulling up the audio file on his computer. “I think you should hear this.” John, clenching and unclenching his fists, bracing himself. Then the whole of it—6 minutes, 42 seconds—spilling into the silence of the office, the horrible truth of Sherlock’s fear. 

_Don’t make people into heroes, John. Heroes don’t exist._

Yes, easy for Sherlock to say. He never had one. But John did. John still believed Sherlock could deduce his way out anything, defuse a bomb through flicking an off switch. It made Sherlock tender, because John’s trust in him was so childlike. 

That tenderness, in turn, made him angry. Culverton had done something to him, reprogrammed him somehow. He still solved cases and ran around town, but now he was soft. Now, he felt things. Not just on an immediate, surface level, deeply, in his subconscious, in his chest. Before Eurus and her violin, and the fall, and everything, Sherlock had been so clean cut, with hardly any rough edges. A chilled-steel machine of logic and reason and rational thought. That was gone. It was all gone, and Sherlock knew that he would never get it back. 

He mourned this as he shuffled out of bed, mind too active for sleep. It was 3:09 in the morning. A boring, morbid time to be awake. Silver moonlight slatted through his shades. The milky color of on his dusty floor made him melancholy so he walked into the kitchen. Maybe he would make some coffee, surprise John at 6:14 am, which is when he usually walked downstairs to assemble his morningcup of tea. 

_Downstairs._

He didn’t know why, but the thought of upstairs and downstairs felt odd. They had always separated things that way: your floor, my floor. There was only one bathroom, though. John was always bemoaning this fact. Sherlock didn’t mind. It was homey, sometimes, to be crowded in there, Sherlock applying his nicotine patches, John shaving for work, listening to the BBC on a tinny radio.

Then it came. The feeling of dying. Sherlock wanted to cry out, break something. But everyone was sleeping. And what would they think, when the found him in the kitchen, surrounded by shards of broken glass, hands shaking? They would call him unstable and send him off somewhere, when he needed most to be _here_ , at Baker Street, with John. 

Instead, he satisfied himself by pacing around the front room, papers fluttering as he walked by. The movement was helpful, and ever so slowly, the image of Culverton and the feeling of dying faded from his mind. 

♢ ♢ ♢

“What are you doing out here?” 

Squinting in the sunlight, Sherlock staggered to his feet. John was bending over him, still undressed, a dishtowel in his right hand. Tidying up. Restoring order. 

“Couldn’t sleep. Solver the one about the yellow face, though.” He pointed in the direction of a manila folder on his desk. A glossy photograph of a ghoulish little girl poked out of the corner. 

“Nice. Tea, then?” 

“Fine.”

They went about their morning without incident—John dressed, left, and Sherlock spent an inordinate amount of time on a slice of marmalade toast—but Sherlock could read John’s concern. His face was drawn and pinched, and he lingered longer than he usually did, asking about _what are you doing today_ and _are we going anywhere after I get back_. Questions he only asked when he was worried. 

The truth was that Sherlock didn’t have any plans for the foreseeable future. Right now, he was in free fall. What would save him was impossible, and what would kill him was lurking right around the corner. So, no plans. 

Molly came around later, haggard, and wearing an unflattering air of hurt. These days, she tired Sherlock. After the humiliating ordeal of the phone call, he understood. Of course things were tense. Fencing this tension off from casual interactions was difficult, though, and wore Sherlock down. He didn’t have patience for peripheral people anymore. 

“Are you doing okay?” 

She sipped mincingly from a cup of pekoe tea. Since when did John buy pekoe tea? Was it for someone else? Someone he was seeing. Couldn’t be. Too soon. And he was so emotional, as much as he hated to admit it. 

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, yes. Doing all the usual stuff. Solving lots of cases.” 

“Slaying lots of dragons?”

“Little ones, now.” 

“That’s good. I want you,” Molly looked at the area of carpet between her feet, “to be happy.” 

“Hm.” Sherlock laughed, an involuntary reaction that he instantly regretted. Molly knew him too well for that sort of carelessness.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Nothing.” 

Small talk was not Molly’s strong suit, and it certainly wasn’t Sherlock’s, so she left after a few minutes. The whole conversation seemed endlessly dull. Molly had to know that he didn’t love her. And it wasn’t he fault. He could never love her, or any woman. Not in that way. It wasn’t in his nature. 

Sherlock dropped to the ground, lifted the rug, and pushed aside a loose plank. There was his trusty shoebox. The tattered thing had followed him all throughout secondary school and university. His friend and protector. Sherlock removed the lid and took out a dose of morphine. Then he put everything back, lay on the couch, and attempted to dream about something that wasn’t dying. 

It didn’t work. 

Now, the memory of Culverton was more vivid than ever, with a choking sensation to match. Sherlock turned over, groaning in pain, clutching at his throat, trying to open it up, trying to tear it open, just to breathe. It was like being drowned. Like John could have been, at the bottom…at the bottom…A pulse started inside of Sherlock’s skull and he beat the arm of the sofa, shaking uncontrollably, wading through the mire of the past without direction or destination. 

_I’m a mess. I’m in hell._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [UPDATE 7/8/18: Please let me know what you think of the edits! They are minor, but I think they make the chapter much better.]


	2. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John deals with Sherlock's issue, and orders Chinese food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drug use warning applies. 
> 
> Ah! So excited to finally be getting this out there. Be warned: no beta or proofreading. (Feel free to let me know if there are any typos or grammatical errors.) Thank you for the kind comments on the last chapter!
> 
> \- H

John found him sprawled out behind the kitchen table, clutching a box of pekoe tea to his chest, moaning something incomprehensible. _Goddamn it_. He muted the part of himself that was enraged and rolled up his sleeves.

Dealing with a person high on morphine was…difficult. And messy. And not particularly pleasant, at all. But this was a part of his job now, he supposed, hunting around the kitchen for their first aid kit. (He found it under the sink.) 

John manhandled Sherlock onto his own chair, pushing him into place like a doll. 

“You’re going to make me sick,” he muttered. 

Wouldn’t be the first time this happened. Despite the promises and the grudging contracts, nothing ever changed. Sherlock getting high was just as reliable as the leaves changing color, or the day turning to night. Nothing ever changed. Not for them. As John performed a variety of overdose tests, he thought about this. _How grim_ , he mused, _kneeling on the floor, trying to get someone down from illegal drugs. It’s not even the first time._

He remembered the first time. Sweating fingers, nervous eyes, chattering jaw. No one was around to stop him. Such a child, John recalled thinking. Can’t keep his nose out of the candy cabinet. Still, he sat by him. The whole night. In an uncomfortable chair, next to Sherlock’s bed. Magnusson had said that John was Sherlock’s damsel in distress, but that was untrue. It was the other way around.

“Follow.” John passed his finger a few times in front of Sherlock’s face. 

“Nothing to do except let it wear off, I guess.” He was so tired of all this.

They went into Sherlock’s bedroom. It was a strange place, to John. He had been there so few times. As Sherlock snored on the comforter, quite unaware of everything, John poked around a bit. Perhaps here were the secrets behind his icy countenance.

It was a bare room, with two framed posters and nothing more. The lamps were simple and practical and all the clothes was put away with the utmost care. John drew open the nightstand and rifled through its contents. There was nothing of interest except a tiny black notebook with a loop on its side for a pencil. A sketchbook. John had seen Sherlock draw before on cases, scribbling down the dim shapes of buildings and furniture for future reference, but the doodles had always struck him as dry and bland. But the sketchbook featured a style very unlike that of Sherlock’s case hand. The drawings were expressive, brooding, with thick pencil lines and few feathered shadings. There was so much about Sherlock that John didn’t know. 

He put the sketchbook back and walked back to the closet. There was such boyishness in the arrangement of Sherlock’s pajamas, such simple rigor in the alignment of his sleeping shirts. John felt the overwhelming desire to comfort him. About what, he didn’t know. But his instincts told him that something was seriously wrong. And it wasn’t the pills. 

Could it be Culverton? The recording…it had sounded so raw. Sherlock was a good playactor—better than most _real_ actors—but Jesus, John knew him. What he heard in Lestrade’s office was not acting. It was not some Shakespearean melodrama, it was real. Real fear, of really dying. Sherlock shifted in his stupor, beginning to drift off to sleep. That day, hearing the bitterness and terror in Sherlock’s voice, and seeing Lestrade’s go from sorrowful to _ashamed_. John would never forget that. And, strangely, he wouldn’t forgive Sherlock for it, either. 

They were supposed to do things together, and Sherlock always violated that trust. Again and again, he ran off on his own, his madman machinations simply too complex for John to understand. _If only you would_ explain _sometimes_ , John thought, absentmindedly adjusting the coverlet. _I want to help. I just don’t know how_. 

“How long?”

Sherlock was awake. The clock read 9:40 pm.

“A while. Listen, I know you don’t really want to talk about it, but you just can’t anymore. Seriously. After what happened, you’re in no state…”

“What kind of state _am_ I in, then, John?”

“I dunno, Sherlock. A halfway state. Just…try to keep busy. Do something. Get a job, an actual job. I swear it makes thing easier. I know that when I leave you just mope about the flat. That’s not healthy.” 

“And I’m sure _you_ know what’s healthy. Let’s not forget the Case of the Disappearing Bottles, John.” 

“You’re so…”

“What.” 

“Selfish. Christ, you’re so fucking selfish. Should have known it would be exactly the same. Did you ever think that I _don’t like doing this_?”

It was coming out wrong. He had intended for his remonstrations to be loving. And yet his words were cutting. Sherlock’s expression contorted to one of sneering bitterness.

“Have I!” Sherlock’s face was rigid and pale, his mouth, tight. “How would you know what I think about anything?” 

“Sherlock, listen—if you need…if you need to talk, you should just say so.” 

God, the pain in his face. It was unbearable. To admit Sherlock was defeated by his emotions would be to humiliate himself, finally and ultimately. John couldn’t watch it happen so he turned away and stared out the window, imagining he was anywhere but here, so close to the one person he couldn’t have.

“Look…I need some time to get everything together. To make things right again. Will you help me?” 

Instead of answering, John sat on the edge of the bed and impulsively pressed his lips to Sherlock’s overheated forehead. “Of course,” he said, drawing quickly away. He grabbed the phone off the nightstand, heart pounding, confused by the moment, which was somehow both friendly and definitely not. As he dialed their usual Chinese take-out place, he replayed the motion. 

Leaning down, the smell of sweat and skin. Sherlock’s eyes. Closed. 

“Hi. Yeah, it’s John. We’re good. Just a quick order…


	3. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock get drunk; things are said that aren't meant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glad to see some people enjoying this fic! Again, no beta or proofread, so please let me know if you find any errors. 
> 
> Chapters will begin coming out on Saturdays, so expect another installment in your subscription box, if you're a follower. 
> 
> Thanks for the support on the last two!
> 
> -H

They went to the Sussex Downs. 

John happened to know someone at his office whose cousin kept a cabin there, and they were able to rent the place for cheap. Sherlock didn’t know what he expected from a shabby little cottage in the middle of nowhere, or, more specifically, what he expected to happen there _,_ but he convinced himself in the days leading up to the holiday that it would help. 

On the ride down, they were easy with each other. Polite. Afraid to step on each other’s lines. Sherlock felt himself becoming hopeful, and that made him miserable. Hope was so unreliable. 

It was almost the same as before. Except for the kiss. Sherlock couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss. The incident seemed so natural. He closed his eyes and pressed his head against the cool glass of the car window. _Right there. Between his curls._ That’s where John had kissed him. Kissed _him_. Thoughts like these ran endlessly through his brain, short-circuiting his ability to think clearly. He wanted another kiss. A million kisses.

The cottage was small and compact. It had a short curved door, a trellis of honeysuckle, and several curtained windows. Light and air moved constantly throughout the place, which made it feel almost as though you were living outdoors. Sherlock instinctively liked it. This was a good place to die. If necessary. Luckily, the cottage did have two bedrooms, so there was no fear of any awkward sleeping arrangements. Sherlock took the one closer to the far side of the house, and John took the one closer to the kitchen.

It was peaceful. Mornings were quiet and filled with sunshine, and evenings were cool and unhurried. John spent most of his time preparing food, or tending the garden in the back of the house. Sherlock read. And smoked secret cigarettes out of his window at night. Overall, it was not a half-bad holiday, aside from the fact that John seemed unaware of Sherlock’s predicament. He tried—in a clumsy, undignified way—to make it clear that things didn’t have to be like before. When it was dark outside, and both of them were sprawled on the couch perusing their respective novels (well, Sherlock’s was a textbook about the behavior of subatomic particles), he made himself as compliant and agreeable as possible. _Look_ , he longed to say, _it doesn’t have to mean anything._

John would never go in for that logic. He had such a complex about being a man. 

As he walked into the kitchen one afternoon, Sherlock mused upon this. _A man_. That was his credo, his alibi. In some ways, it was more important than the fact that he was a doctor, or a writer, or a friend. He would do anything to preserve the illusion that he was a good man. _And he is_ , Sherlock thought, pawing through the cupboard for the coffee grounds, _of course he is._ Yet the relentlessness with which John pursued this ridiculous, fictional thing about men still confused Sherlock. Perhaps it was just another of those human quirks Sherlock didn’t understand. The explanation didn’t satisfy him, but what else could it be? 

“Hey,” John said from the kitchen table. He was reading a local newspaper. They laughed over the headlines sometimes; they seemed so quaint in comparison to the London news. 

“Hello. Coffee?”

“Yeah, sure.” 

The rich smell of brewing espresso soon filled the room. In their own home, the fragrance often had chemical undertones, since Sherlock frequently used the pot for various experiments. Here, it was fresh and crisp. 

“Er, Sherlock, I just wanted to apologize for…um…what happened. I wasn’t really thinking.” 

“It’s alright, John.”

Sherlock found it hard to breathe. Struggling to remain composed, he took two mugs down from the rack. Then he started speaking again, rather involuntarily. Once he started, he couldn’t stop. 

“Do you remember what you said, about this? It’s all fine. I…think we should apply that here. There’s not a good time for anything, really. What I mean is—what I’m trying to say—is that I’m not afraid of it.”

Somehow, this communicated everything he had been thinking. John appeared to grasp his meaning. 

“Yes, you’re right.” 

Things were precarious that evening, a fact that certainly wasn’t helped by both John and Sherlock getting punch drunk. Sherlock felt his judgement slipping away, his body grew loose and warm. These were dangerous circumstances. His whole head was screaming _go to bed and pray you don’t do anything stupid_ , but he stayed put. After a few games of cards, they lit a fire in the hearth, which cast a pale yellow glow over everything. John looked carefree and happy, and Sherlock really _felt_ that way. Culverton was nowhere to be found. There was nothing in the shadows. 

“You know, I thought for a second, earlier, that you were going to say something ridiculous.”

They both laughed uncontrollably for a few seconds.

“Really ridiculous, I mean something that you can’t take back. Something goddamn _sappy_. Then you didn’t! You didn’t. Swerved around that, huh.” 

“What do you mean?” Sherlock was suddenly quite sober.

“Like, I dunno, _I love you_.” 

Time stilled. And Sherlock heard himself answer, heard himself laugh, but it was only an echo in his brain, a ghost of sound that had no meaning. John continued, unaware of the pain he was causing Sherlock. 

“I love you, like all the press says. Haha. Confirm their nasty little theories. We could have made a public statement. Imagine that. Really get everyone’s gears grinding. 

It was cruel. It was unnecessarily cruel. And Sherlock felt, on some level, John knew. This was about him being a man. Sherlock hoped he was glad, that he was a man. He let him continue in this vein for some time, before both of them fell into a bewildered silence. Too much had said, and Sherlock knew it. He was cold to it all, though, just as he had always been. Numb to the bone. 

How could this hurt him? He was too far above it all. Beyond the clouds. In a sphere out of reach of John or Molly or Mycroft or anyone. _What about when you kissed me?_ he thought. _What about when you put me in bed and made me your patient and tried to heal me? What about then? Who is this second, callous John, where is the first, the forgiving John? I want him back._ That was everything Sherlock said to himself as he knelt over the toilet and tried to bite back his vomit. _Here we are, in the middle of nowhere. And I’m stuck with him. Because I want to be_. Sherlock’s mind strained against his emotional limits. The barriers resisted, and shifted their mass against the onslaught of sadness that surged into him. He calmed down and resolved himself to a stricter policy. _Get yourself under control._

He did. The next day passed in a haze of single-minded activity. Sherlock applied himself fully to the mechanics of atoms. John slept in. They didn’t speak. Something had given out the previous night.Their awkwardness and distance made the reckoning even more raw. 

“I didn’t mean any of that shit I said last night,” John came in from the back of the house. He was wearing a t-shirt (unusual, Sherlock could not help but note), “I can’t believe—damn it.” 

But Sherlock held firm. 

“You were drunk. I was also very drunk. It’s all a wash when you’re drunk.” 

“Okay.” 

“What’s in the garden? Anything particularly useful?” 

They spoke this way for the rest of the day. Normal, with an undercurrent of deep confusion, and a sense of loss. For they were lost, both of them.

Sherlock sat outside in the sun. It was comforting to feel its rays on his face. If only he could soak that warmth into himself. Empurpled heather and embroidered daisies swayed in the light. All was soft and hushed with the mystery of daytime. He was very tired. He could feel his body crumbling. He wanted to sleep for thousands of years, and be found a fossilized imprint by archeologists of a future generation. They could put him in the London Science Museum. 

Was it really so wrong that they should say “I love you”? 

Even as friends.

What was the hardness in John, the set in him, that so prevented any kind of meaningful resolution? Sherlock knew his disappearance had hurt him. God, it was all such a fucking blur. He pressed his hands to his eyes, dragging in a breath. Culverton briefly appeared, his gloved hands wrapped around Sherlock’s throat, his whisper low and filled with venom.

People didn’t understand that Sherlock really had been close to giving out on that hospital bed. Nearly six weeks of continued drug abuse (and occasional overdosing) had torn him apart, inside and out. John bruising his ribs and socking him in the face had certainly not been helpful. So when Culverton came to his bedside, there had been a genuine danger of him being strangled, or at least knocking unconscious. In the court orders and police interviews that followed, no one seemed to recognize this fact. Sherlock didn’t force the issue. But had John not arrived…well, the possibilities were gristly. 

Now, John appeared at Sherlock’s side, wiping his hands. He smelled soil and butter. Gardening and cooking. The inside of his shoe was newly marked, probably from walking over the gravel driveway in front of the house. So he went to the store.

“We should treat each other better, you know.” 

He spoke quietly and quickly. 

“After all, we’ve been through so much shit. Let’s promise that, okay?” 

It was out of the ordinary for John to offer the olive branch because Sherlock was the one who started fights. Or, at least, extended them. 

“Yes. I agree.” 

“Come inside; there’s dinner. I know you are set on maintaining a skeletal appearance, but you have to try it…” 

They went inside together. 


	4. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inevitable reconciliation with past events. Panic attack warning applies, as well as possible PTSD.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here we are...things are starting to get a little clearer...I tried something new with this chapter, hope you enjoy! I am considering doing one all in text messages as well, since epistolary is such a major theme in the Sherlock universe. Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Also: I am looking for a beta! Let me know if you're interested. 
> 
> \- H

[January 29 // 20:31] 

Mate, have you gone gay? 

[January 29 // 21:42]

I’m not gay. He might be. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.

John scrolled through the comments on his first real story, “A strange meeting.” It was 4:03 am. But he couldn’t stop thinking about this entry. Way, way in the beginning. The whole exchange—and the story itself—baffled him. 

_ It’s mad. I think he might be mad. He was certainly arrogant and really quite rude and he looks about 12 and he’s clearly a bit public school and, yes, I definitely think he might be mad but he was also strangely likable. He was charming. It really was all just a bit strange. _

He shut his laptop and pushed it away, mildly dizzy. Had it really been this way? John knew his own writing, and here, he sounded positively giddy. _I’m not gay. He might be…It doesn’t matter._ A non-answer. Because the answer wasn’t supposed to be important, right? Right? John was a hypocrite, though. He wondered about Sherlock constantly. While all signs pointed to a very specific conclusion, he hesitated to make any suggestion about his knowing, or his interest. John acknowledged this about himself. He was interested. 

More than interested. _Invested_. Not only did John want to know, he wanted to… _do_ something with the information. 

Sherlock believed—quite loudly—that John had a complex about being a man. And John supposed he did, in the ordinary way that men do. But he loved Sherlock. Fiercely and truly, in a way that surpassed labels, or anonymous questions on defunct blogs. The depth and sincerity of John’s love sometimes terrified him because it had nowhere to go. What do you do when you’re holding a fire in your bare hands? 

And to think he almost fucked everything up by getting drunk, and saying things he didn’t mean. John was always doing that to Sherlock, hurting him. They hurt each other. Over and over again, back and forth, raging on, when all John wanted to do was be with him for good. It seemed so apparent to him, laying in bed, going through past posts, that he almost got up and went to Sherlock’s room. His whole body was tingling as though points of heat were being pressed into his skin. It was difficult to control his thoughts, and they veered off into a million wild and implausible futures. 

John closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on falling asleep. 

*

Sherlock still had the scars. They didn’t hurt anymore, but sometimes he looked at them, all marshmallow pink on his back. He stood in the bathroom, shirt off, craning his neck to see into the mirror. Mycroft had watched this happened. Enjoyed it, even. The whole incident made Sherlock sick to his stomach. He had been used. During those whole two years, Mycroft had _used_ him, relentlessly. The scars would always remind him of that fact. They were family, but Sherlock didn’t trust him. And it made him sad that he couldn’t trust Mycroft. 

_It is what it is._

4:58 am. Sherlock pulled on his t-shirt in one bitter movement and then walked towards the kitchen. As he grew closer to the wall, where his phone was charging, he felt a familiar choking sensation. Horrified, he brought his hands to his mouth. The hallucination grew stronger. He took a deep breath. The cheery yellow wallpaper swam and he fell to the ground, spiraling out of control, his brain shutting down, overloaded with the smell of latex and garlic and the stink of ripe blood and open flesh. Suddenly, everything was running together. The crackle of fire and the sound of a bullet and the breaking of glass. It went through Sherlock and gutted him. Involuntarily, he began to cry out. 

*

Something was wrong. 

Jolting awake, John pushed aside his covers and rubbed his eyes, attempting to shake himself into alertness. He got up clumsily and stumbled out of his room, drawn to the sound of suffering. 

Sherlock was on the ground, eyes unseeing, clearly in the clutches of some kind of mental episode. John sat him against the legs of a chair. _Goddamn it. God_ damn _it._ He held him still. This was not his area of expertise.

*

There were hands. Other than Culverton’s. Firm hands, dry hands, steady hands. Sherlock made a conscious effort to slow his breathing, using a ridiculous timing trick. _One one thousands. Two one thousand. Three one thousand. Four one thousand. Five one thousand._ Gradually, his heart rate slowed enough for his head to clear, and things became sharp again. John was leaning over him, his demeanor calm despite the wild fright in his eyes. 

“You alright now?” he said softly. Sherlock was suddenly very aware of how isolated their cottage was. They were alone together, stranded on a raft in a huge ocean. 

“I’ve been better.” 

It was so quiet, Sherlock could hear the clock ticking on the wall. 

“It’s him, isn’t it? I should have known. I’ve been trying to figure it out for the past few months, but I couldn’t get it. You were saying his name when I came in.” 

“You listened to the recordings,” Sherlock said bitterly. It was a statement. 

“I knew it wasn’t fake and I still didn’t say anything. That’s my fault.” 

“Lestrade didn’t catch on?” 

“Maybe. To a lesser degree, though. I think he was in denial. He cares about you.” 

“Mm.” 

“Come on.” 

John pulled Sherlock off the floor and they walked down the hallway together, not touching, but knowing. They reached John’s bedroom and filed in without saying a word. The left side of the bed was undone, so Sherlock slid into the right side. Underneath the covers, John’s hand curled over Sherlock’s.

Both slept soundly till morning. 


	5. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock find peace and go to the town market.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOD! This is late! Sorry!! Hope you enjoy the chapter anyway. 
> 
> No specific warnings apply this time, just a sunny day on the moor. 
> 
> \- H 
> 
> PS: This is probably one of the best chapters of fic I've ever written?! I don't know, it just came together so nicely. There's still more for our boys to experience though, so don't worry, this certainly isn't the end...

True peace came after that, and they settled into a routine, sleeping in the same bed every night without ever mentioning it during the day. It comforted Sherlock, and he no longer dreamed of Culverton. 

His body was aware of the change before he himself was. Several days into this arrangement, he noticed for the first time that he had subconsciously adjusted himself to John’s rhythms, positioned himself to keep the bed as steady as possible, done everything to avoid touching him. John would be uncomfortable with that, he knew. The kiss on the forehead had stunned him for a whole forty-eight hours.

Today, they were going to the marketplace. Sherlock folded his body into the car. He was reluctant to leave the house. Outside people and their outside problems exasperated Sherlock. They worried about the most boring things. The cable bill, the house cat. What did it matter? John, on the other hand, seemed eager to make a brief return to civilization. John liked mundane things, sometimes. 

The door opened and Sherlock was brought out of his thoughts.

“Ready to go?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock put the key in the ignition and started the car. He always drove. Some mysterious agreement made the duty his, even though Sherlock did not possess a legal driver’s license and refused to get one. 

“You know who was just on the phone?” 

Testing him. Seeing if he was up for games again. Sherlock rewarded these efforts with a smirk. He looked over at John, made a few quick observations, and then factored in the length of the phone call.

“Mycroft.”

“Right-o. You’ll never believe what he asked me for. To report on you. For money. Just like the beginning.” 

“Bastard. I told you, he’s my arch-enemy.”

“Moriarty wasn’t?” 

Sherlock almost said “He was too fun,” but thought better of it. Probably a wise decision. 

“No brotherly love wasted there.” The car jolted over the gravel path as they drove towards the market. Sitting with John, in the car, on the way to the market, felt old. Like they had been doing it forever. And Sherlock realized he could get used to this, not having to constantly put his mind to infuriating problems, not having the fates of so many rest on his shoulders. _Heroes don’t exist_. _You’re on the side of the angels._ What he didn’t want to be a hero, or on any side, what if he just wanted for his life to be quiet

“You must be itching to get back,” John said, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. 

“In some ways…” They parked. A cluster of white tents was erected in the center of the town. People with baskets and children milled around, haggling over loaves of bread, and bags of fruit. It was slightly overwhelming, facing the prospect of strangers again, and John picked up on this immediately, in a way that both irritated and endeared Sherlock. Was he really so knowable? 

Shopping went quickly and mostly without incident. They were easy with each other, like it had been before Culverton, and Sherlock reveled in the opportunity to spend time with John, whom he rarely saw anymore due to his demanding work schedule. After all, John was single-handedly paying the rent. 

They bought honey and peaches and a variety of tiny tomatoes and fresh orange juice. And then they went home. 

It was dark by the time the car pulled into the driveway, and Sherlock leaned against the trunk for a moment, admiring the night sky. He remembered a conversation he had had with John years and years ago. 

_I thought you didn’t care about things like that._

_Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it._

Here, out in the open, the sky was even more brilliant. Dusky mist rose off the heather, and there was a sort of smudged edge where the inky night dipped into the pale evening. He felt the weight of John’s gaze and love like a physical touch. Sherlock reached over and grabbed his hand, the movement extremely practiced. Sherlock was concentrating. He wanted to be able to know this, rather than just experience it. John moved closer to him and they watched the sun simmer into nothingness. 


	6. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short reckoning with past events, and continued archive dives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rereading the old blog entries is honestly a little surreal. How was _this_ the show? If you want to read my extended thoughts about some of the TRF stuff, check out the end note. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and supporting! 
> 
> \- H

The first time John noticed Sherlock was at his funeral. Being in a crowd of past clients and friends and family and _not_ hearing a constant stream of witty, slightly offensive deductive reasoning had struck John with a deep sense of remorse. He never should have taken Sherlock for granted.

As the day ground on, he was acutely aware of Sherlock, in everything. The shadow of his jaw, the movement of his hair, the contemptuous bend of his lips. These details haunted him, so much so that John did not pay attention to the service, and barely comprehended the eulogies given over Sherlock’s grave. No one had asked John to say anything. He didn’t know why. He was Sherlock’s closest friend, his only friend. And they didn’t ask him to say anything. Lestrade had a piece, John remembered. Something apologetic, and ashamed. And John swore that he could hear Sherlock’s voice during the whole thing. _Look_ , he wanted to say. Because wasn’t he right there, holding up a stolen police badge? Or right there, disappearing around a corner, just fast enough to elude John? 

That was when John had realized him. He went home the night of the funeral and sat on his bed and felt the lack of Sherlock. There was no one mixing chemical experiments in the kitchen, there was no one making coffee, there was no one shaking him awake because _the game is on._ His life without Sherlock, was colorless, meaningless. There was no one to give shape to the hours between his job and sleep. John hated to admit it, but Sherlock had been everything. And he waited. Hopeful, desperately optimistic, he waited, and just assumed that Sherlock would come back. Because there was always a trick with him. 

Two years passed, and there was no trick.

Where in London, in the world, were the two green eyes that were fixed in John’s memory? 

Of course, when Sherlock came back, John had been absolutely enraged. Because who does that, to a person? John would never do that to Sherlock. There were a lot of nights after the funeral that John almost blamed himself. He hadn’t been present enough, shouldn’t have argued so much. _Hadn’t been, shouldn’t have_. All phrases for the past. _You could have…could have…_ done _something_ , he used to think to himself, over and over again, walking to a pub, buying groceries. _Anything would be better than this._

When Sherlock came back, John didn’t know how to cope. The sadness of losing him had filled his life, just as the man himself had when he was alive. When he was _around_. So what was he going to do now? He couldn’t feel _sad_ and _be with Sherlock_ at the same time. Those things cancelled each other out. The solution was to avoid him, at all costs. No visits, or telephone conversations. A hard silence. Enough to know that he was still out there, still _being_ Sherlock, but not enough for him to take over John’s life. In some ways, the distance was good for the both of them. John learned how to lead a civilian life separate from violence. Sherlock learned how to miss John. 

Because he did miss him, during that little full stop. Mostly on cases, but also just…randomly. Walking through the park alone. Talking to Mrs. Hudson about the various inane goings-ons of Parliament. Yes, he missed him, and missed him, and missed him. The thought of other women—or, even more infuriatingly—other men made Sherlock viciously angry. He attributed these mood-swings to his cases, but of course he knew that it was jealousy. 

The first time they were together again was in the bathroom of the flat. Sherlock had rolled down his shirt to put some ointment on his scars, and John happened to come in. 

“What happened?” 

“John?” 

“What happened, while you were away?”

“I traveled a bit. Brother dearest helped me with these, though.” 

John came forward and put his coat over the bathtub. 

“Give it here.”

With a sigh, Sherlock relinquished the cotton swab. 

“I can do it myself.”

“No, you can’t.” 

Forcing himself to remain calm, John cleaned and dressed the wounds. Each one was long and thin and not quite healed, and the skin around the wounds was raised and angry. It was pure horror, for John, to look at those wounds and bandage them. He could feel the brands across his own back. John lifted the crisp white shirt back over the wounds and walked back out into the kitchen. Sobs—ones that he hadn’t experienced for a while—rose in his throat but he fought them back with a vengeance. It wasn’t time for him to lose control, not when Sherlock was so clearly spiraling. 

“Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t _tell you_ , but—” 

“Of course I would want to know.” 

“I…”

“What is it with you? Are you too blind, too arrogant, too lost in your mind palace to understand that people care about you? And people don’t want to see you hurt?”

John bit down on the word “hurt,” his pulse racing, everything strained to a fine point of hot pain. What happened next very much depended on Sherlock’s reply. _Could be a fight_ , John thought. And he braced himself for the physical contact, because in some sick way, he _wanted_ it, because then their touching could at least mean something. 

“Jesus. What a fucking mess.” 

And John noticed that his hands were shaking. 

“Ah God,” he said, sitting down in his chair, drawing his blue robe around himself, eyes lost and scattered despite exuding an air of extreme calm.

“John, there’s no way to apologize,” Sherlock went on tiredly, “I do extend my…er…apologies, of course, but these circumstances are so extraordinary I think your plebeian “sorry” is almost an insult. Just try to understand, I had to make an impossible choice. And I miscalculated you. I thought you’d be done with the tragedy of my death in a week.”

Sherlock laughed a bitter laugh and the sound of it was shattering. 

*

[May 12, 2013] 

_Your flatmate likes long baths. As does mine. So he goes and has a bath and lights all his candles. It’s a small bathroom with no ventilation. Wet towels are taped around the door frame from the outside—there’s a tiny bit of tape still here. The flames from the candles use up all the air and he slowly suffocates. Just like falling asleep. The wet towels are removed and the murdered contacts my assistant because he thinks he’s cleverer than me and wants to show off a bit. Which I can understand. I like showing off. Who doesn’t?_

As an experiment, John had once used the voice memo application on his phone to record parts of a case. It had been for…what was it called…John squinted at the screen: “The Deadly Tea-lights.” That was the only way he had been able to include that long quote from Sherlock at the end of the story. John scratched the area behind his ear. They were probably still on his phone. Better not, though. Right? He cast a glance at his nightstand, then at the sleeping figure beside him. Sherlock. 

He looked so peaceful when he slept. His hair went in all different directions and occasionally he would mumble something incoherent and roll onto his stomach. Casting the thought of the voice recordings entirely from his mind, John shut off his laptop and slid farther into the blankets. He concentrated on the outline of Sherlock’s nose in the dark, silhouetted by the dusky purple light coming through the window. _No more nightmares_ , though John tenderly, resisting the urge to put his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, _no more Culverton._

_You’re safe._

_We’re safe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Here's that end material. 
> 
> The way Moffat and Gatiss decided to reckon with TRF was, initially, fine. I thought the first episode of the third series, TEH, was actually quite upfront about addressing the elephant in the room. After that episode, though, things got remarkably worse! Any sense of consequence or pain that was explored in TEH disappeared, only to briefly glimmer back in series four's TLD (when John said "You pretended to be dead for two years"). One hour-long episode is not enough to reconcile with the major death AND RETURN of a major character. Where is the grief, the anger, the sorrow, the loss of time that both of them must have felt? It's nowhere. Because TRF, and in some ways, TEH, were dead ends. Just like so many other narrative arcs in Sherlock, Mofftiss took a good idea, punched it up with emotion, and then left it to die. So this story, like so many of my other fics, is about DEALING WITH THAT. I feel the same way about Culverton. I am in the camp that believes Sherlock was really in danger of dying. He lists the physical damages himself. And, as we know from TRF, Sherlock does cry. Sherlock does know when a situation is truly perilous. So how come after the Culverton scene--more or less a mirror of a rape scene, nice job on the nuance, Mofftiss--everything is just hunky-dory? These things MUST carry over. Otherwise, everything that happens loses its sense of gravity. 
> 
> Alright, well, there are my little feelings. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter!
> 
> \- H


	7. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock finally work it out, while Sherlock is attempting to solve a case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, I know. My schedule has been...uh...not working out. But I hope you enjoy this chapter! I think this fic will draw to a close in around 3-5 chapters, just to give you a heads up. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who commented on the last chapter, and thanks to all of you who are subscribed! 
> 
> \- H

It was raining. 

Finally. 

For three days in a row, the weather had been usually warm. John had said it was probably the brewing of a storm. He had been right. Sherlock opened the window above the small kitchen sink and put his hand outside. Droplets fell into his palm, soft and slightly sleepy. A rush of air, smelling of thistle and hot dew, blew lightly across Sherlock’s face. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. 

Culverton was still...present. But that was only natural. It’s impossible to get rid of ghosts, because that’s the whole point of them, isn’t it? They haunt, they linger. They stay long after they make themselves known. Things were different now, though. Now, whenever Culverton threatened to become overwhelmingly terrifying, there was John. Not too far away, sprawled out on the couch, squinting over some piece of news on his laptop. Drinking tea and calling Mrs. Hudson. Laughing. Frowning. Smirking. 

Ghosts do not disappear. But they can fade. And soon, Sherlock thought, as he made his way back to the table, where a few tantalizing manila folders were waiting, maybe they will fade so thoroughly as to be nothing more than silver shimmers. Leftover almost-nothings.

John was already flipping through some of the material, grimacing at photos of a dead body. That was something Sherlock admired about him, though he had never voiced the sentiment before. After so many years of service, John was still impacted by the gravity of human life. He had not developed the grimly cavalier humor of the mortuary workers at Bart’s, or the weary acceptance of hospital nurses. Every life was important and significant and meaningful.

“What do you think?”

“What do I think? Sherlock, this is horrifying. My God. Seven people…in one night. And the words. That makes it all the more horrifying, somehow.” 

“Mm. I have some hypotheses, but most require that we be on location. Or we could…” Sherlock looked around the room, noting the weight and height of each piece of furniture. He drew back and framed the living room with his hands. “Or we could just recreate the room here.” 

“It’d be like a play.” 

“Yes. This table,” Sherlock gestured to a small stumpy side table with several novels piled onto it, “should be in that corner. And the breakfast table will have to be turned on its side. The couch’s middle cushion should be pulled out and placed to the side. A teacup, too. A teacup, right there, on the mantle. The teacup’s position is absolutely critical.” 

Sherlock watched as John surveyed the room, biting his lower lip. 

“Alright. Say that all again.”

It took them hours, but after an argument about the correct way to move an ottoman, and more than one bruised shin, they had rearranged the living room to resemble the bedroom of Maisy Potter, who had been murdered near Central London in her own flat. 

“Where do you want me to lie again?” 

John had grudgingly agreed to act the part of Maisy Potter. Sherlock didn’t really _need_ a body in the room to solve the case but…well, it might help. 

“There.”

“Right."

Arms stiffly at his sides, John sank to the ground next to the overturned table. He closed his eyes. He looked so sweet, with his eyes closed. Sherlock wanted to touch his eyelids. They seemed so curiously soft, like—

"Well, solve it then," John said. 

Sherlock took a few steps back and then entered the room as though he was the murderer. The first thing he tripped over was a pile of books, which went sprawling in the direction and configuration of the books shown in the photos Lestrade had sent him. Next was the teacup. It didn’t move, but it was directly in Sherlock’s line of vision. Interesting. Lastly, there was John himself, who was still very earnestly closing his eyes, as though lack of sight would make his performance more convincing. Well, it didn’t. Bending down to inspect John’s position on the ground, Sherlock found himself nearly nose to nose with him. 

The face that was so intimately familiar to him, the face that was always concerned, the face that Sherlock had loved for a very long time. 

Without realizing what he was doing, Sherlock put his hand on John’s chest to steady himself. This unexpected contact brought John out of his role and his eyes opened. 

They kissed.

It wasn’t the fantasy kiss that Sherlock had memorized, nor the gentle peck that John had given him on the forehead. It was a meet-you-in-the-middle kiss, a compromise kiss, a kiss that said “for now” and promised much more. 

John stared up at Sherlock, unblinking, totally still. There was a new fizzle in the air between them that was more than familiarity. Like…recognition. As though the chord that stretched between them had finally snapped. Sherlock felt himself falling again, pitching head-first into the honey-daze of love. He had read somewhere once that infatuation was always mutual, and that it was impossible for such strong feelings of yearning and restlessness to be unreciprocated. John’s hand came up to the side of Sherlock’s face, and Sherlock felt like a teenager again. The room swung in prismatic colors despite the dark night outside. 

No matter may ever be created, and no matter may ever be destroyed. 

That was what Sherlock had learned, while earning his degree in chemistry. Maybe love was like that, too, maybe there was a finite amount of it in the universe, and it was just luck whether or not it ended up inside of you. Never created, never destroyed, just shifted, circled, cycled, in endless, untraceable patterns. Or maybe love was not finite, maybe it was just _there_ and you had to take it, whenever you got the chance. 

Whatever the theory, Sherlock was certainly feeling it now. Like he had never felt it before. Full of resolve and purpose and understanding. He tried to stop thinking— _just react, be_ here—but that was always the way he processed things that were big, he thought about them. 

John sat up so that he was facing Sherlock, as solemn as a child playing pretend. He leaned forward, eyes closed, and kissed Sherlock again, more deeply, more firmly. Sherlock felt the weight of the contact drop into his stomach, fill him with light. Did people feel this all the time? If so, Sherlock didn’t know how they handled it. It was like…it was like…John brushed his fingers through the curls on the nape ofSherlock’s neck, and Sherlock ceased to think coherently. 

*

Sherlock didn’t hate outer space. He was afraid of it, he supposed. Because, after a certain point, there were things he wasn’t able to explain, anomalies that defied all human comprehension. Possible gods, possible demons. 

John sighed from where he was leaning against Sherlock’s side. The old distance was gone. Somehow. 

They watched the stars. 


End file.
